The three big names

I met David outside Countdown and he didn’t look like David.
He was wearing leather shoes, a black jacket, black dress pants, both a bit baggy on his thin frame, but he was so proud in his interview getup.
Some of the usual David was there.
The hoop earring through one tender lobe and the surprisingly soulful eyes that looked like chocolate buttons.
“You look great, very professional.”
“Thanks.”
David rubbed his big hands together and exhaled with a loud “whew.”
“Nervous?”
“Yeah, but it’ll be OK.”
It was.
After the interview, I shouted Countdown’s newest part time grocery assistant a coffee.
“Congratulations David. It’s such a good start for you.”
“Yeah.”
He beamed, and all I could see were pointy teeth and happy, melted chocolate eyes.
“I’ll be working and Paris Hilton’ll come in to ask me out and I’ll be like, nah, sorry Paris, I can't, I'm working.”
It had been a long time since David had talked joyful, pointless shit.
What these illnesses do to people, making grown men thrilled to accept jobs that teenagers only grudgingly take.
“I’ve always thought of being like whatshisname Hilton and Donald Trump. Hilton, Trump and Gillespie, the three big names.”
‘I don’t know David. Those guys seem pretty ruthless, but you’re a nice guy!”
He laughed and I did too and we finished our coffees.
I doubt if Hilton and Trump have ever been as proud as Gillespie was that day.
The biggest of the three big names.